"The danger's past," whispered Bess. Stanley, whose family had been by any reckoning inconsiderable—to use the kindliest term. "Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse.
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